Page 36 of Honeythorn
“Where have you been?” Lord Raphael growled. He really did do that a lot, like a wolf or a bear. Milan laughed quietly to himself. That did not seem to please the bear at all.
“Sorry,” Milan said and promptly fell into darkness.
**********
Milan did not feel well. That was the first thing he noticed. The second—that he was in his bed, with no recollection of how he had gotten there.
He turned his head to see that Lord Raphael was standing stiffly by the bed.
“You’re in my room,” Milan rasped out dumbly. Lord Raphael had never been in his room before.
Lord Raphael said nothing, of course, but did grab a cup filled with water at his bedside table and offered it to him. Milan stared at his hands. They were bare.
It all crashed over him.
The slow way he was wasting away. The exhaustion, the nausea, his poor appetite. How he couldn’t even manage to ride back from the village without collapsing.
Milan slid an arm from under the blankets and touched the tip of his finger against one of Lord Raphael’s knuckles. There was a moment of relief and warmth before the hand flinched away.
A wave of exhaustion swept over Milan. He was sinking into the pillow, into the bed, into the floor. He was drowning.
Milan looked up at his husband still standing there as if he had any right to be by his side.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Milan whispered.
Raphael took a sudden step back, slamming the glass on the table. He narrowed his eyes at Milan. “Is this all a farce?”
Milan gaped at him for a moment before an ugly laugh left him. “Is what a farce? Our marriage?”
“Your illness,” Raphael countered. Milan stared at him.
“Are you quite mad?”
“You’re trying to manipulate me.”
Milan stared at the ceiling, shaking his head in pure wonder. He was married to a madman. “Leave me,” Milan said eventually.
Raphael stood there for a moment longer. “I will send the doctor in,” he said before leaving.
Milan stared after him, shocked at Lord Raphael’s audacity, to call a doctor when he knew perfectly well what was wrong with Milan. Typical Alpha—he knew nothing would happen to him, even if the doctor knew what he was doing.
“I would rather have this meeting in private,” Milan said coldly as Lord Raphael entered with the doctor—a short, stout man with thinning hair and spectacles. The doctor immediately huffed at Milan.
“Settle down. Your Alpha has a right to attend the consultation.”
Milan clenched his teeth, propping himself up on a few pillows, but Lord Raphael raised his hands and turned around.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said, shutting the door behind him. The doctor gave Milan a chiding look. Milan tried to control his anger.
“Well. Let’s get down to business then. I am Dr. Fitch. I do believe you’ve overexerted yourself, Lord Milan,” was his astute diagnosis.
“Have I?” Milan asked sarcastically.
“Indeed. Lord Ledford tells me you rode into town and came back quite late.”
“I ride into town regularly, and I’ve never fainted before.”
Dr. Fitch made a disapproving noise. “Yes, and that’s exactly the problem. It is good to keep active, but Omegas are required to dolightexercise, not to go gallivanting into town every day. Surely you have duties in the home that need your attention.”
